Some Days It Just Doesn't Pay To Think
by Painton
Summary: Stolen diamond necklace? It's just another case for the great Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, his, ah... partner? Takes place during season 1. I'm not saying there is Johnlock, and I'm not saying there isn't. I leave that up to the readers to decide.
1. The Case

"Monica."

The receptionist looked up from her keyboard. "Who?"

"Monica Klein. Where is her desk?"

The receptionist frowned and looked at him suspiciously. She glanced at John, who stood as casually as he could, looking around the office and smiling uncomfortably.

"And who are you, exactly?" the receptionist asked, standing slowly and reaching for her phone.

Sherlock sighed. If she called security on them, it would only waste more time than he had already wasted explaining who, what and why they were here to John. He frowned and looked the woman over.

Ears pierced, no earrings. One necklace, second-hand, probably from a mother or aunt. Bracelet, plastic. Jacket, cheap, also second-hand, seams worn, tear in the pocket on the right side. Reached for the phone with her left hand. Right-handed, then. Fingernails chewed, slight yellow tint to the eyes, waste basket full of gum wrappers. Lapsed smoker, quit three weeks ago, give her two more days before she breaks down and buys a fresh pack…

"Monica has some, ah… outstanding payments, if you know what I mean," he said, putting on a casual accent and leaning forward against the desk. Changing the language of his body was as easy as changing the accent on his lips. He smiled at the receptionist and whispered, "Credit cards."

For a moment, the receptionist frowned, and then she burst into a grin. "You don't fool me," she said. "You're Sherlock Holmes. I've seen your picture in the papers!"

Sherlock gave a start, and then he rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "Not again! This is all your fault," he said, turning on John and throwing out an accusing finger. "You and that bloody hat!"

"I love that hat!" the receptionist cried.

"You, shut up." He turned around, surveying the row upon row of blue upholstered cubicles. They had three minutes, tops, before security arrived. "Which one are you," he muttered.

"Third row, six down," the receptionist told him. He glanced back at her and she shrugged. "You might have just said…" But he was already striding down between the rows. John remained behind, his hands in his pockets with the air of a man used to being left behind.

"He's cute."

"Hm?" He looked at her.

"You're friend. He's cute," she repeated.

"Ah, yes. So I've been told…" John frowned and rose up on his toes, trying to peer over the cubicle walls to see what was taking Sherlock so long. He wondered if he shouldn't have followed the Great Detective, just to be sure that he didn't insult anyone important.

"So's his friend."

"Right, I…. Sorry, what?" He turned back in surprise. The receptionist was smiling at him. She was blonde, pretty, and that was enough for him. He smiled and sat on the corner of the desk. "Well, we're not just friends," he said.

Her face fell. "Oh, I didn't realize that you were…"

"What? No! None of that. We're colleagues. I'm his partner. I mean, not his partner… his detective partner. We, ah… detect… together." He sighed and offered her his hand. "I'm John."

She smiled and took it. "Emily."

"John!" Sherlock's voice rang out over the wide office space.

John sighed and then he shrugged. "Duty calls," he said apologetically.

"Of course."

He left the receptionist, shaking his head. Another date lost, and when he finally reached the cubicle that belonged to their suspect, he found Sherlock on his back, lying under the cheap, fabricated desktop with his legs splayed out into the aisle.

"What are you doing!?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "Someone will see you! Where is Monica Klein?"

"Gone. Five minutes gone, and she left in a hurry. Someone tipped her off." Sherlock swung himself back to his feet with remarkable grace for a man so tall. "She won't be back."

"How do you know? The receptionist said…"

"Yes, the receptionist…" Sherlock repeated slowly, looking back over John's head toward Emily's desk. "Two exits, one an emergency door, she wouldn't want to set off the alarm, so… The only way she could have gone is past the desk of your new friend."

John shook his head. "Wait, how do you know that she's not still here. She might have gone to the ladies' room. You can't just assume that…"

"No purse," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Her purse, she took it with her. A woman might take her purse to powder her nose, as it were, but not her coat."

"Her coat?"

"Yes, coat. It's cold out and wet, a rain slicker, then. She would have hung it there on that hook. The floor's still wet from where the water has dripped off of it. So it hung there for some time, half the morning, but it's not there now. Conclusion: she took her coat and her bag and left."

"Five minutes ago?"

"Maybe six."

"And how do you know _that_?"

"The chair is cold to the touch. Considering the temperature in this room added to the heat of a human body means that no one has sat there for at least five minutes. The computer is turned off ,but it's still warm. A high end model, but it would take at least eight minutes to cool down completely after it was shut down. Conclusion: she left between five and eight minutes ago."

"Oh." John frowned at the empty cubicle. "So, why five?"

"What?"

"Why five? You said five. Why not eight minutes ago? Or seven?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked at him blankly. It was a familiar look, the one that said, John, quit being daft, of course it was five minutes.

"Lucky guess?" he said instead, looking to John for confirmation. It wasn't a guess, but whatever tiny detail had triggered the conclusion was so subtle that even Sherlock couldn't explain it. His method of observation was an instinct beneath even his finely-tuned perceptions sometimes.

"You don't guess," John said, and the smile that he expected spread across Sherlock's mouth… but not to his eyes.

"No, I don't," he agreed. "I think it's time to speak to our friend Lesrade, don't you?"

"Really? You're not going to...?" John glanced back toward the receptionist's desk.

"What?"

"You know, ask her why she said... never mind." Maybe John wondered why Sherlock didn't ask Emily why she hadn't told them Monica Klein had left the office, but obviously Sherlock had already figured that part out.

He gave John a knowing look and said, "Ninety seconds."

"Um..."

"I calculate that you have exactly ninety seconds to speak with your new friend and still make it down to the lobby before I walk out the door. You might stretch that to two minutes if the cabs are slow." He turned to go, then turned back. "If you have a moment to spare, you might ask her if she knows what was in the package that Monica carried out of here when she left."

"Ah, right, I'll... Wait, what? What box? How do you...?"

But Sherlock was already striding back down the aisle, past the receptionist's desk. His mind was on another clue, following a new line of investigation. John shook his head and hurried back to Emily. If he knew anything about Sherlock's "calculations" it was that he did not have a full ninety seconds to spare.

* * *

**This was going to be a one-shot, but my one reviewer and an incessant muse have convinced me to let Sherlock solve the case.**

**No amount of research could ever make my attempt at British English sound natural, so this will be unfortunately, awkwardly US-accented.**

**-Paint**


	2. The Suspect

"Lost? What do you mean, lost?"

"What other meaning is there? The man gave us the slip," Det. Lestrade said tiredly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and felt the usual signs of a painful stress headache coming on. Not a surprise, really; he only ever got them when he was forced to bring a high-profile case to Sherlock Holmes.

"I told you to put a man on him."

"And I did. At great risk to my career, I might add. I don't need to tell you that if you don't get this case solved soon, the Captain will have my head for it. Do you have any idea how much twenty-four hour surveillance costs these days? All because _you_ had a hunch!"

"I do not have a hunch! I have evidence," Sherlock muttered, pacing back and forth, his face pinched in thought and frustration. "You could not even keep watch over one idiot security guard."

"Some idiot," Lestrade said smugly. "He's got you in a fix, hasn't he? And you don't even know whether he took that necklace or not."

"I know that he took it," Sherlock snapped, "what I have not yet determined is where he has hidden it." He turned his back on the detective and stared out the open window. "That was why I need him followed. I knew I should have used my own people."

"Your people? Even that rag-tag band you've got working for you couldn't've tracked him. We had our sights on Klein for two days, day and night, and then this morning he shook off our tail like it was nothing."

John laughed and nearly choked on his tea, making an unattractive sound. Both men turned to stare at him, and he set the cup down carefully. "Ah, sorry?" he said, wiping spilt tea from his chin. "It's just… you know… a tail. He shook his… Oh, never mind. So, what do we do now?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed and sank into the nearest chair. His arms hung limp, but his body was tense and ready to spring up at a moment's notice. John could see the wheels turning behind his roommate's eyes and knew the thoughts in his head were moving faster than any mere mortal could comprehend. He was puzzling over the clues that they had collected so far, and other clues that only Sherlock had seen.

"You say your men followed Klein for two days. What did they see?"

"Not much. The man's as dull a paint. At eight o'clock on the dot, he took a taxi to a nearby pub, stayed there all day getting progressively pissed, watching football and being slapped by every woman he spoke to. At the end of the night, he stumbles into another cab for the ride home again. That was day one. Day two was exactly the same at a different pub two blocks away. This morning, he caught the usual taxi, but when it pulled up at the pub, no one got out."

"And the cab never stopped anywhere else between Klein's flat and the pub?"

"Well…"

"Well?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"There might have been a bit of traffic, but our man was never more than two car-lengths from the cab. He would have seen something if Klein got out." Lestrade shook his head. He was as frustrated with the surveillance officer as Sherlock, more so because it wasn't Sherlock's job that would be on the line if the Chief learned that he had ordered the surveillance team on only Holmes' word.

"Hmmm…" Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.

"That's not very surprising, is it?" John said. "I mean, what else is a man to do when he's lost the only job he has, his wife's left him, and…" He glanced at Lestrad's pained face and coughed uncomfortably. "Sorry," he muttered.

Lestrade waved him off. "No, I may as well get used to the idea."

"What was that?" Sherlock demanded, breaking from his thoughts to look up at them.

"What, nothing," Lestrade snapped. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Alright! I think you're off your bloody rocker. Richard Klein did not steal that necklace. He'd be a fool to do it."

"Naturally," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "Only fools get caught, and I intend to catch him red-handed." He stood up and resumed his pacing with a scowl on his face.

John sighed and shook his head. As usual, it was up to him to make peace. "Fine, so we'll assume for now that Klein did take the necklace, but what did he do with it? You had his house searched and there was nothing there." He looked to Lestrade, who nodded.

"That's right. No sight of the necklace in his house or on his person. There's no chatter on the wire, no sign that it's been sold. We thought he may have given it to his wife to hold onto, just until the heat died down…"

"A woman like that, he'd never trust her," Sherlock said, waving his hand at them.

Lestrade sighed. "And why not? Monica Klein has a much wider range of friends and hobbies. She might have stashed it anywhere. At her office, for example. If I had even a scrap of evidence for the warrant, I'd…"

"Waste of time," Sherlock said. "She's quit her job."

"What? When?"

"Yesterday."

Lestrade glanced at John. "Ah, yes," he agreed. "We went to interview her there, the receptionist said she'd given notice that day." He didn't mention that it was Sherlock who had figured out that she had been carrying a heavy box of personal items when she left.

"You think she quit because she knew her husband was coming into money? Ten thousand pounds isn't usually enough to give up a steady nine-to-five."

"Klein would never trust his wife with something like that," Sherlock said. "He knows her spending habits, the secret credit cards, the debt. Even if she knew he had stolen the necklace, he would not have trusted her to hold onto it for him. She would pawn it the first day and pocket the cash. No, the wife's a dead end…"

"Look, I'm still not convinced that Klein _is_ the thief," Lestrade broke in. "Why would a man steal from his own store when everyone knew that he was on shift and would be there alone all night? He had to know that he'd be our prime suspect. Now, I've got a report that there have been several robberies in the neighborhood, jewelry, electronics, and the like..."

"He knew that the police would suspect him, but is there anything less suspicious than an obvious suspect?" Sherlock turned to John, his eyes pleading for support, but John only blinked up at him in confusion.

"So, you're saying that Richard Klein took the necklace _knowing_ that we would investigate him for it?"

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, pointing to John. "See, even he understands!"

"No, Sherlock, I don't. I do not understand any of this." John sighed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the detective with earnest frustration. He spoke slowly and enunciated his words as if talking to a small child. "He was the only guard on shift. He might have copied that key at any time in the past six months. The recent robberies would give him cover. His fingerprints are all over that store, and he knew that any competent detective would look straight at him. So, yes, he steals the necklace, hides it somewhere safe, somewhere that only he knows. He'll wait out the investigation. No court in the world would convict him without the necklace. All he has to do is wait."

"Well, I can't wait," Lestrade said, standing up. "I'll round up the usual suspects. Whoever's been breaking into businesses, that's our thief, _not_ Richard Klein."

"You're wasting your time!" Sherlock said, impatiently, turning his back on the man.

"At least I'm doing something! You want to collar Klein for this, then find me that blasted necklace." Lestrade walked out of the room. His heavy shoes could be heard thumping down the stairs, as well as his polite farewell to Mrs. Hudson down below before the front door opened and slammed shut behind him.

Sherlock gave no sign that he noticed Lestrade had gone. He was scowling, his eyes searching the clutter of photos, newspapers and other clues scattered across the desk. His looked at it, but it was the clues in his mind that he searched. The answer was there; he just had to find it. There must be something that he had missed, some piece that he hadn't fit into the puzzle. "It's the unexceptional cases that are the most difficult to prove," he muttered.

John sat quietly for a few minutes, and then checked his watch. He cleared his throat and stood up. "Well, I'm off," he said.

Sherlock ignored him. He crossed the room and dropped down onto the couch, his head at one end, his long legs stretched out to the other. His shirt flared open at the collar.

"I said, I'm off," John repeated, looking down at him.

"Yes, yes. Goodbye."

John frowned. He wasn't surprised, but he was still a little disappointed. Sherlock pressed his fingers together and rested them against his chin, still thinking.

"Aren't you going to ask where I'm going?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched in annoyance. "On a date, obviously."

"Obviously?" John sighed. "Of course, obviously." He shook his head and put on his coat.

"You'd never wear that shirt unless it were a date," Sherlock said absently. "The color doesn't suit you, but you think it does. You can't stop touching your hair, and," he looked up at the man with a knowing smile, "you wouldn't be waiting to tell me where you were going unless you were going on a date. With a woman." He raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes. A date," John said. He coughed uncomfortable into his sleeve. "I'll, ah… probably be back late. Don't wait up."

"Tell Emma hello from me," Sherlock said, turning his eyes to the ceiling again.

"Her name is Emily, and…" John stopped in the doorway and turned back. The look of smug self-satisfaction on Sherlock's face was absolutely insufferable. "Now, how the hell did you know…?"

"I hope you're not taking her anywhere very nice," he said. "She'll be dressed quite casually, hasn't got a lot of cash to spare. Spend too much and she'll only resent you for it."

John threw up his hands. "You know what, I don't care. Just… I hope you just lie there and don't have any fun at all. I don't care." He turned up the collar of his coat and stomped down the stairs and out of the house wondering why he bothered.

Sherlock listened to John storm out of the house. He winced slightly when he heard the door slam, but almost immediately, his mind was on the case again. He had narrowed it down to twelve likely places where Richard Klein would hide a diamond necklace, and he expected that before the night was through he'd have cut that list down to three.


	3. The Twist

The door swung open with a bang, and John sat bolt upright in bed. He stared wildly around the room, still half trapped in the usual nightmares of war and danger. He saw a bleary silhouette in the doorway, outlined by the dim light from the hall lamp. He reached for the gun that he had kept beside his bed since the incident with the Black Lotus crime syndicate.

But the room was dark and he was tired. He overreached the dresser and fell off the side of the bed, taking the gun, his blankets and the alarm clock with him.

The figure in the doorway entered the room and walked around the bed to the window. John aimed his gun at the man as he bent down and picked up… his shoe?

The man stood up and the light from the lamp outside shone on his familiar long face and chiseled cheekbones. Sherlock's eyes passed over John's bedhead and bare chest. "Sorry, did I wake you?" he asked, then turned his attention back to the shoe.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. What are you doing?"

"I need a shoe tread, men's size nine, loafer," he said. "Not exactly your size, wrong brand, but unfortunately all the shops are closed this time of night."

"What time is it?" John asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He looked around for his clock.

"Three a.m."

"Three a.m.!?"

"Yes. Excuse me." Sherlock took the shoe and walked out of the bedroom, leaving John to look around and wonder if he hadn't dreamt the whole incident. He might have believed it was a dream if it weren't for the missing shoe.

He crawled back into bed and tried to bury his head under the pillows, but there was a steady sound of clattering tools and stomping feet coming from the living room, falling through the open door and pounding in his head.

He groaned and climbed back out of the bed, pulled on a fresh shirt and stumbled into the living room. He blinked at the bright lights and dropped down onto the couch. Sherlock was pacing back and forth between the mess of test tubes on the kitchen counter and a box of wet sand on the desk in the living room, occasionally stopping to consult the screen of his computer or his cell phone. John's shoe was in the box, covered in sand. A tray of spent cigarettes sat smoldering beside it.

"I thought you quit," he said, nodding to the cigarettes.

"It's an experiment," Sherlock said shortly, but his eyes lingered on the spent butts.

"Right. An experiment," John muttered. "You know, I might have shot you?"

"Hm? With an unloaded gun?"

John looked up. Sherlock was looking over at him with a bemused expression on his normally impassive face. It was often maddening, tonight it was just irritating. He was too tired to be angry.

"That gun was loaded when I went to bed. I checked."

Sherlock shrugged but, for an instant, John thought he saw a flash of uncharacteristic concern cross his face. "I needed small caliber bullets. Yours were a closer size than mine. Close enough for a working hypothesis. Again, there are very few shops willing to sell bullets at three a.m."

"Why?" John sighed.

"No idea. It's damned inconvenient."

"I meant, why did you need to steal the bullets from my gun?"

"I needed to measure how quickly a bullet would sink through a twenty-four percent solution of salt water."

John knew that Sherlock was waiting for him to ask why he needed to know that, but he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Sherlock, I had a very late night, and I would really like to sleep, so would you mind not…"

"How was your date?" Sherlock asked, the final word sharply spoken as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Well, I…"

Before John could answer, Sherlock's cell phone chimed and he pulled it out, peering at the screen. John shut his mouth, knowing that anything he said now would only be ignored.

Sherlock read the text and frowned. He put down his phone, turned back to his work, then picked up the phone and read the text again. He briskly typed out a reply, sent it, and then put the phone in his pocket.

"Get your coat," he said.

"What?" John looked up and saw that Sherlock had already taken his scarf from the hook and was tying it around his neck. "Where are you going?"

"_We_ are going to 43 Lindley St in Stepney," he said.

"At three a.m.? Why?"

Sherlock smiled. "Lestrade has found the missing Richard Klein."

"What? Where?" John was on his feet and pulling on his coat. He was glad he had thought to put on a fresh shirt before leaving his bedroom. He still wore his pants from last night but, though they were wrinkled, they would be presentable enough. "What address is that?"

"Monica Klein's current residence," Sherlock said.

"And Richard Klein is there?"

"Indeed."

"What aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock smiled, then turned and practically skipped down the stairs to the street. John sighed and followed him, more slowly. It couldn't be anything good if it made the man so blasted pleased with himself.

He joined Sherlock on the street. A car was pulling up to the curb. Not a taxi, it was too late for that. Lestrade must have sent it.

"Sherlock! What is going on? What happened to Richard Klein?"

"He's dead. Murdered." Sherlock climbed into the waiting car.

John stared at him, stunned.

"Finally, some excitement! I was beginning to think this case was dead!" His smile was smug and self-satisfied. Sherlock looked up and saw that John was still standing outside the car with his hand on the door. "Come, Watson. The game is afoot."

John shook his head, and then climbed into the car. Why not? It wasn't as if he was getting any more sleep tonight.


	4. The Solution

Sherlock stood in the center of Monica Klein's living room, turning slowly in a circle; his eyes darted from corner to corner, examining every knickknack and lace doily. By the end of his examination, he would be able to list the title of every book on the bookshelf, the date of each magazine stacked upon the coffee table, and to recreate the exact position of the body that lay on the floor at his feet, but for now it was useless to say a word to him about any of it.

"Cause of death?" John asked Lestrade who stood at his elbow, watching the consulting detective with an expression that was bland bordering on irritated.

"Blunt force," the official detective responded. "Knocked on the back of the head by something, probably another one of those." He pointed to a shelf over the fireplace mantle that was cluttered with large, solid porcelain sculptures. There seemed to be a noticeable gap that suggested a missing figure. "The coroner estimates time of death at about eight o'clock last night, but we'll know for certain once we get him back to the morgue."

"Any suspects?"

"The wife is missing," Lestrade said. "Obviously, she'll be on the list, but the way this is playing out, and if Holmes is right and Mr. Klein stole that necklace…"

"I am right," Sherlock interjected. He crouched down and looked over the body carefully.

"_If_ Klein stole the necklace, then he may well have had an accomplice, someone to hide the diamonds or pawn them while he was under suspicion. Not hard to imagine a man like that would decide there was more profit in killing his partner than splitting the money."

"And Monica?" John asked, frowning as he watched Holmes lie down on the carpet to peer under the furniture. "You think she was in on it? That she left with this… this partner?"

"Maybe. Or, maybe Klein hid the necklace and his partner took her thinking she could show him where it was. What the hell are you doing down there?" he said sharply to Holmes who was now on his knees, peering up into the chimney.

Sherlock didn't bother to answer. He turned back to the body and frowned. Blunt force trauma, certainly. The blood-matted hair and indent in the back of the man's skull was obvious, but the blow had been dealt at an upwards angle. Klein was short, five-foot-eight at the most, so Suspect was shorter, undoubtedly a woman.

"Well, Holmes?"

"I don't suppose in all your running about you discovered the name of the woman that Richard Klein has been dating?"

Lestrade frowned. "Dating? The man's still married, in case you've forgotten. They're separated, not…"

"And no married man had ever had an affair before?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head with his usual smug smile. "I haven't the time to go over all that's wrong in your solution, but did it ever occur to you to wonder why Richard Klein would come to his estranged wife's house?"

"Well, to, ah…" John frowned and shook his head. "If she was in on it with him…?"

"She was not," Sherlock said. "Not on the theft…" He looked down again at the body, rubbing his chin with his hand.

Klein was sprawled across the carpet where he had fallen. He still wore his coat, so he hadn't intended to stay long. Gloves on the floor, a few coins and his keys next to them, pockets turned out.

"I should hope your people aren't this sloppy when searching a body," he said.

"We left him as we found him, as I told you before," Lestrade said, annoyed.

Holmes frowned and looked at the pockets again. He stood up stood up, still frowning, and tried to recall why that fact felt familiar. Each clue was a piece to a puzzle, the difficulty was finding out where each one fit, and this one fit somewhere. He had seen a hole in this exact shape, but where?

John had knelt down to examine the body, too, to give it his usual medical review. He rubbed his tired eyes and sighed.

"Long night?" Lestrade asked him.

"Oh, yes. I was out late, and then came home to…" He nodded to Sherlock and didn't need to say more. Lestrade nodded and gave John a knowing smile.

"Out late, were you?" he said. "A good night, then?"

John smiled. "Not bad. She really is, ah…"

Sherlock pushed between them and stepped up to one of the other officers milling about the room. "Car?" he demanded.

"What?"

"Klein's car. Where is it?"

Lestrade glanced at them and nodded to the officer. She shook her head. "We haven't found it yet, sir," she said. "Mrs. Klein's car is missing, too."

"Well, it's early. Day shift'll be on soon. We'll let them make a proper search," Lestrade told her. She nodded and stepped out to relay the order to the other officers.

Sherlock scowled. "Dull, dull, dull," he muttered. "I don't know why you called me, Lestrade," he said. "There's nothing new here, and even your rookies out there could have figured this out. A simple domestic dispute is not in my line of work. I don't know why I bother."

"There's nothing simple about it!" Lestrade said, and John stood behind him, shaking his head at Sherlock. "A man is dead! And, if I may remind you, that necklace is _still_ missing. That, I think, _was_ your case, wasn't it? Well, your suspect is dead, and I need answers!"

"I'm not your toy dog," Sherlock snapped. "I don't bark out answers every time you put a coin in. You want someone to spoon feed you answers, find someone else, or ask John there to explain it for you. I've got work to do."

And with that, he stormed out of the room and out of the house. Lestrade and John stared after him, then looked at each other.

"What's got him in a mood?" Lestrade asked.

John shook his head. "I have no idea."

.

Five minutes later, John walked out of the missing Monica Klein's house and onto the street. He was surprised to find Sherlock still standing on the curb, his hands shoved into his pockets and his face an impassive mask. Only his eyes moved, back and forth, up and down, searching the rooms of his "mental palace" or whatever he called the darned thing. If he didn't know any better, John would have said that he looked worried.

John sighed and stepped up to him. "You know, you could try to be a bit more…"

Sherlock held up his hand for silence and said nothing.

John rolled his eyes, shook his head, and considered hailing a cab and leaving Sherlock to find his own way home, but it was still late and the streets were deserted. It would be a long walk home. He had hardly taken two steps before Sherlock spoke up.

"This way, John," he said, his usually commanding voice much softer than expected.

John turned back and saw Sherlock already making his way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. He considered ignoring him and returning to Baker Street alone, but only for a moment, and then he was jogging after Sherlock, muttering to himself.

"Where are we going this time?" he asked.

"Klein's car should be this way," came the reply.

"Ah. And how do you know that?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and said nothing. His eyes searched the streets and alleys they passed but studiously avoided looking at John who was staring at him in surprise. Usually, the man never passed up a chance to show off his reasoning. And he had been talkative enough back at the flat and before they arrived at Monica Klein's house. What had changed?

It didn't take long to find the car they were looking for. Klein had parked a few blocks down from the house but hadn't made any efforts to hide it.

"Well, now what?" John asked, but Sherlock was already reaching into the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a ring of keys and fit one into the lock. John shook his head. "You stole those," he said. "That's evidence."

"Evidence of what? That the man owns a car?" Sherlock muttered. He pulled a map out of the glove box and a folded piece of paper fell out. With a frown, he picked it up and unfolded it.

"Look, I don't know why you're in such a foul mood," John said. "And what are you looking for!?"

"Nothing." Sherlock thrust the paper into his pocket and left the car. "Just a, ah… hunch," he said and looked at John with a forced smile.

"Fingerprints?" John said, resigning himself to being an accessory to this like so many other things.

Sherlock held up his hands. The night was cold and he still wore his gloves.

"Right. What're you going to do with those?" he asked, pointing at the keys.

Sherlock glanced at them, then tossed them back into the car. He locked the door and shut it. "There. The police will find them when they search the car. Satisfied?"

"It's an hour before the police come looking for it," John said. "What if someone steals it?"

"In this neighborhood? Not likely. Ah, good. The cabs are beginning their rounds. Weren't you wanted at the office this morning, John? You should have just enough time for a shower."

"What? I'm not… oh, damn!" He wasn't scheduled to see patients that day, but he had agreed to show up for the introduction of a new medical student and he didn't dare miss that appointment. Things were already strained between him and Sarah since their failed experiment in dating.

Sherlock was watching his face closely, but he didn't say a word.

They found a cab and made it back to the flat just as the sun was rising over the tops of the buildings. John cleaned himself up, drank a large cup of very strong coffee – muttering all the while over the many ways that Sherlock caused him stress. He often complained under his breath when Sherlock was "thinking"; he knew the man wasn't listening. But Sherlock was listening this time and even his thick skin felt the sting of John's words, but he lay on the couch, eyes closed and lips sealed.

John left the flat, his coat slung over his shoulder, and never noticed that his cell phone had been lifted from its pocket.

Sherlock got up and stood at the window, watching John hail a cab and drive off. He frowned. As easy as it was to lie, he knew John wouldn't be happy, but he would be even less happy to learn what Sherlock had already figured out.

He took out John's phone and searched the directory, finding the number that he knew would be there. He dialed and lifted the phone to his ear.

After a dozen rings, a woman's voice answered, "Hello, John. Isn't it a bit early for…"

"This is Sherlock Holmes," he said, before she could say anything uncomfortable, "and I believe that what I have to say we would both rather John Watson did not overhear. When shall we meet?"


End file.
